


But the Devil Always Won

by Everlind, ThePioden



Series: Centaurstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Butchering, Centaurstuck, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poaching, Unconventional Families, alternate universe - centaurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePioden/pseuds/ThePioden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Open verse Centaurstuck.exe<br/>==> Go back. No, go way back... to before the beginning.</p><p>The village is burning.</p><p>They’re killing your people. They came in the night and they brought guns. Came while you were all sleeping and defenceless and there are <em>so many of them</em> and they just… just started killing. Sloppy, with fire and lead and little to no regard of how much damage they’d do, fast and careless and taking as much as they can. Dead or alive doesn't matter to them; they’ll make a fortune from the blackened bones alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**== > be The Sufferer **

 

The village is burning.

You can’t breathe. Can’t breathe because if you do acrid smoke will roil down your throat and stain the inside of your mouth with the taste of charred meat. You don’t want to know what your friends, your family, taste like.

Gunshots; you flinch, then prick your ears. Sounds close, sharp and sudden, and you go very very still. Someone screaming, shrill and terrified — _pleading_ —it’s suddenly cut off. You close your eyes against the silence, and hold your sons even closer.

They’re killing your people. They came in the night and they brought guns. Came while you were all sleeping and defenceless and there are _so many of them_ and they just… just started killing. Sloppy, with fire and lead and little to no regard of how much damage they’d do, fast and careless and taking as much as they can. Dead or alive doesn't matter to them; they’ll make a fortune from the blackened bones alone.

They're _harvesting._

You promised to keep your people safe and now they’re dead on the ground and you couldn’t. do. _anything_. You promised, fucking swore an oath of duty to watch, to protect, and you didn’t notice until it was already too late and all you could think of was taking your two boys and getting the hell out of here. 

Karkat sobs against your throat, soundless and terrified. Not a sound, not a sniffle, being very quiet like you told him. Just wet panic smothered against your skin. At your shoulder is Kankri, twisting handfuls your coat between sharp fingers. You’re hurt, and the weight from your youngest son in your arms has the blood flow faster from your body. There’s a crust of it around your lips, too. You’d bind the injury, but the sight of the bullet wound would only frighten your boys more and there's just no _time_.

Everything throbs with pain, but your left side has gone numb, remote. The sick fury of your heart beating in your chest has you shaking and reeling until your gut clenches against it, heaving. Fuck. You can’t afford to be sick - better stop for a moment.

Carefully, you lower Karkat to the ground. As soon as he realises, he begins to shake like he’s about to shatter. His little hands grasp at your clothes in denial - then let go. He wobbles on his hooves like a new fawn until Kankri takes his hand. Sinking through your front legs, you drop down to their height and meet their eyes.

“I need you both to listen to me very carefully, okay?” you tell them, wincing at how raw and wet your words come out. Bleeding inside; probably your lung. You hope it’s not, but, yeah. Probably is. Whatever, you have three others. You'll be fine. 

“Daddy,” Kankri says and something inside of you shrivels up and dies because you can’t remember the last time he called you daddy ( _daddy_ , not father). Karkat just stares at you with huge dark eyes, ears laid back and nearly disappearing into the mess of his curls. “Dad, Daddy—” Kankri repeats, voice going high and shrill with hysteria.

His nose is bleeding. You catch it with your thumb and swipe it away in a dark arc. “Shh, Kankri, I’m not leaving you,” you assure him. “I just need to-“

“They’ll k-kill you,” he blurts, voice ringing through the night. “Dad, they’ll kill you.”

You wince, cover his mouth. “Quiet!” you hiss, drawing them close and listening hard for a few precious heartbeats. Nothing. You allow a shivering exhale, but keep Kankri’s mouth covered. “They won’t, okay? I promise”- lies, lies, and he knows it, you can feel Kankri’s mouth twist with indignation against your palm -“but I need to go. I need to help our friends. Do you understand?”

“I’ll go with you,” Karkat says. He’s so small and grubby with his face a mess of tears and snot and ash, but he’s looking at you so seriously, pure determination plain on his chubby round face. “I’ll help.”

You kiss the top of his head and just hold him for a second, breathing in his comforting scent. “You’ll help me best by staying safe, Karkat, okay?”

He gives you this squinty frown, like he knows that’s too simple. Too young to really understand what is happening, but too damn smart for his own good nonetheless. “Okay,” he says eventually, reluctant.

“Dad!” Kankri protests again, a burst of noise against your palm.

“Promise me, Kankri. Take Karkat and hide. Be very very quiet okay? Now, promise me.”

Kankri’s bottom lip trembles. “Like a mouse?”

“Like a mouse.”

He nods, face dropping and shoulders shaking.

“Good boy, Kankri. I’m proud of you,” you tell him, hugging him one-armed. Then you straighten up and nudge them upwind -away from the hungry roar of the fire. “Go on, hide. Pick a big bush and crawl under it and don’t come out for anybody but me,” you urge and he goes, pulling a hesitating Karkat along with him. You keep watching until they’re out of sight, hating every single moment they’re further out of reach.

Almost, you call them back. So much that could go wrong. The wind could turn and they could be burned alive, or they could get found and slaughtered or… or you could simply fail to come back and they’d _stay_ , they’d fucking stay because they’re good boys and they’d stay right there waiting for you until they starve or freeze.

Almost.

You don’t, though. You can’t bring them where you are going. Can’t. _Can’t,_ unless you want 'could' to turn to 'will'. Press the heels against your eyes, hard, take a shallow breath. Turn around and walk right back where you came from. You have to do this. Have to - you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. Even if you’re too late, you have to go and see with your own two eyes.

The village never was very big, but it seems endless now. Thick with fire licking at the wooden houses and up the trees, leaving dark, blistering scabs in its wake. Thick with the bodies of the dead on the ground. Some you recognise. Some you don’t; too much damage, just crisp husks contorted in agony.

“I’m sorry,” you tell them. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes water with grief and smoke. And with anger. This pure, vicious rage poisoning your blood and clawing your hands with the perverse need to rake the skin from your body until it can pour free in all its miasmatic glory. The heat pulls at your fur and dries out your eyes, but you think it might be coming from within you; this spitting mania with a sharp undertow of wanting to _hurt_. Hurt and rend and tear until something gives between your hands - it’ll never be enough for this. 

Nothing can ever pay for this. Nothing. No pain or fear or misery or blood can ever pay for this.

The smoke gets thicker and the hungry growl of the fire nearly deafens you. Wish you had something to defend yourself with, fuck, you didn’t even take your sickles. No time, just your boys - nothing is more important than them. What good would your sickles even do against their guns, really? They’d blow a hole through your chest before you could even so much as scratch them.

You trip over something.

Go down on a knee hard against the hard-packed earth and shake with horror. Warm. Small (no, please, no). You look.

“Mituna,” you groan, already reaching. There’s blood matted into his endearing, fly-away hair near the temple. His small body is strewn across the forest floor like a child’s discarded plaything. Alhena’s son. Where—?

“Don’t move, bambi.”

The barrel of a gun sways into view. Under your hand, Mituna breathes - shallow and thready, but still alive. You swallow, try to shift yourself over him, making a shield of yourself.

On the other side of the gun is a human. Blonde curls are matted with dirt and his cornflower blue eyes narrow as you deliberately meet them with your own dark ones. “Fucking hilarious,” he scoffs through gritted teeth. “And here they keep saying you lot are as smart as we are.”

“I daresay we are,” you answer. “Lower your gun.”

“Or what?” he returns with a barking laugh. “What could you possibly hope to do? See, you’re just a dumb talking animal. I have a gun, and you don’t. Did you ever watch Bambi, bambi? Do you know what happens? No? Get up before I blow your brains out.”

You hesitate.

“I’ll shoot the calf,” he snarls. “Just get the fuck up—no, leave it, ’s not going anywhere.”

No way to see if Mituna is conscious or not, how bad the damage is. So you get up, allow yourself to be herded for a short distance -barely a few steps. Your eyes are down to watch where to put your hooves… getting lightheaded now, not good. The world is humming, sad wails ringing through your skull and your whole left flank is wet and sticky red, your hide keeps twitching involuntarily against it. More blood there on the ground, too, gluing sand and dried leaves to your hooves. Couldn’t possibly come from you, there’s a great big puddle of it which smears away into a trail. A trail that leads to a pile of bodies.

Tegmen, your sister, is standing before it, little Meulin clinging to her front. One arm she’s using to support the child, the other is holding a dagger pointed straight out a lanky woman with a high caliber rifle. Tegmen’s missing one horn and her right eye is crusted shut. Someone hit her, and hit her _hard_. Can’t see her lover, nor your nieces. The Disciple and Nepeta either, for that matter.  

Despite yourself, you glance at the pile. There’s more poachers swarming around it, reduced to slinking shades against the throbbing red of the flames. They gather close to the bodies like vultures, gloved hands and sharp implements pecking away. A whole night’s work. Through the remains of the trees you can see a smear of dawn in the distance, gray and delicate above the blaze of the burning fields. Seems far away.

Tegmen sees you. “Kammar,” she sobs your name. Lost and heartrending, and you know they killed Elnath.

The second of distraction earns her a rough jab with the rifle. “Shut up! I’m saying it one last time, put down the calf and lie down on the ground!” 

Tegmen shakes her head, lips going flat and defiant. Chin held high.

“Tegmen-“ you begin.

“DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKERS TOUCH HER!” The Grand Highblood stalks into the clearing, two guns trained on him and bleeding from a gash so deep the skin folds away like tattered rags. He’s carrying Gamzee on his back, the boy’s short arms clinging to his father’s waist. Kurloz comes behind - half dragged along the ground by a big brute human with hands as big as shovels. Still conscious though, and struggling against the cruel grip on his arm.

“Algedi,” Tegmen groans. “ _No_.” The dagger wavers.

“It’s alright, sister,” The Grand Highblood answers. “It ain’t no big deal.”

“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” one of the poachers roars, striding over to join the woman holding the rifle who’s still menacing your sister. “For the last goddamn time, you foul bitch, put the calf down or I’ll fucking blow it straight out of your arms.”

A frisson of terror runs down your spine. “Tegmen,” you plead with her. “Tegmen, put Meulin down, I’ll—“

The butt of the shotgun slams into your head and the world unhinges even more so. This time you do throw up and flounder down to your knees besides. Vertigo swirls behind your lids and your fur goes damp with sweat.

“—FUCKING KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKING SPINELESS AR—“

“ _KAMMAR_!”

“—shut the hell up, make them shut—“

You hold up a hand, let them see you’re fine, it’s okay, this is the least of it. They can hit you all they want, if that’s what it takes. If they want to grind down your bones for potions or rip out your tongue and cook it for a priceless delicacy, sell you off piece by piece, they can have you, you don’t care. _Let them go_ , you say, or you think you say, your voice is so sluggish and muddled you can barely make out the words you are speaking. _Take me instead_.

That’s when Meulin shrieks, this high note of pure fear that Kurloz echoes. The man has grabbed for her, has a handful of the child’s hair and is pulling at it until her head is bend backwards at a precarious angle. Tegmen lashes out, hacking at his arm with the dagger.

For a moment everything slows down. Feels like you stand there a whole lifetime over witnessing the glorious undulation of the fire reflected on the blade as dagger glitters through the air. The arc of Tegmen’s hair and the fervor in her eyes as she rises to defend a child that is not her own. The thick oiled clack of a shotgun slide, a gun being loaded — and then being aimed.

That single moment takes centuries and yet you don’t have enough time to even shout her name.

The shot cracks through the air. Tegmen jerks unnaturally as the bullet rips into her, through her, and she goes down still holding Meulin. Neither of them move.

Someone is making this goddawful keening noise into the ensuing silence.

“Bitch tried to stab me,” the man says, apparently unperturbed that’s he’s covered in bits of your sister. They killed her. Both her and Meulin are still shapes on the ground. 

They killed Tegmen. 

It’s you making that noise, you realize. You try to stop, she’s dead, she’s dead, it doesn’t help, they killed your sister. You clap a hand over your mouth to muffle the noises and find your whole face wet with - you don’t even know.

“Motherfuckers,” The Grand Highblood says in a low, rolling grunt. He lifts his left foreleg and hacks hard at the ground. “You’ll fucking wish you hadn’t motherfucking done that. Kammar—“

You look at him. See the look on his face and begin shaking your head, no. No no no no, fuck no, NO. “Algedi _no_ —“

He’s huge and heavy, this great hulking mass of muscle topped off with curving horns and hair running from head-to-spine in this crazed, tangled mess and he just… just gives you this near mischievous grin and answers: “Algedi yes.”

And then he throws Gamzee at you. 

“—get the fUCK OUTTA HERE, BRO,” he roars, and fucking _explodes_ into motion. All you can see is his muscles churning under his hide like steel and his horns going down and one of the poachers is howling—

 

 

—your arms are suddenly full of Gamzee, and Kurloz is right behind and he has _Meulin_ , how even… no, no time. A human body spins through the air, arms and legs flapping loose and slack like a lifeless doll. A salvo of gunshots ring through the air as all the poachers try to shoot him— no time, fuck, FUCK, no time, _you have his boys_ — you shove Kurloz ahead of you, and Meulin is lolling along disoriented and slick with Tegmen’s blood, but alive.

Mituna, still motionless — Kurloz just fucking picks him up and slings him over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

Behind you can hear Algedi laugh and roar and snarl, and guns being fired over and over again.

You?

You fucking run.


	2. Chapter 2

**== > be Porrim**

 

It’s been hours.

You’re cold and nauseous with fear and the clammy chill of pre-dawn. Kanaya is warm against your side, breathing softly. Poor dear passed out from sheer exhaustion. Mom said to stay down and hide until she came back, and you did exactly as she told you. But light is spreading across the skies and the roar of the fire has died down to a dismal murmuring. Thick plumes of smoke are all you can see from little hideout within the bush.

You desperately want to get up and look for your family, but you don’t want to be disobedient, and you can't leave Kanaya. Then again what if — no, no you won’t allow yourself to think that. Mother will come for you. She will. She has to.

Rustling — you flick your ear outwards to catch it better. Soft and hesitant, like someone is walking very carefully, trying to be soundless. Hooves, not feet, more than one set. Slowly, you reach for the knife your mother gave you ( _just in case_ ), curl cold fingers around the hilt.

“Mom?” you ask, voice rough from the smoke and the hours of enforced silence.

No answer.

Kanaya stirs, restless. “Mommy?” she echoes.

“Shh,” you shush her with a finger against her lips and she goes quiet, eyes wide and ears lowering. Afraid.

Silence. Your heart beats so hard you can feel your throat throb with it— you fear they might hear it. The leather-wrapped hilt feels solid between your fingers, comforting. There’s only the restless _shh-shh_ of the leaves swaying in the wind, making glimpses of pale light dance across your face and your eyes twitch restlessly. Just as you let some tension drain from your shoulders the branches hiding you are shoved aside.

Blind with terror, you swipe out with the knife, rising to your knees and shoving Kanaya behind you. You hear someone grunt with surprise and pain —the branches snap back into place as they rear back, lashing at your face.

“Porrim, it’s _me_!”

You pause, horrified. “Kanny?”

“ _Yes_!”

Sick with dread, you scramble out of the bush, dragging Kanaya with you. There, clutching his arm, is Kankri. He looks horrible. Everything about him is drooping: curls, ears, fur, even his tail.

 

 

“Oh, no, I didn’t— Kanny, did I hurt you?” you reach for his arm, pry at his fingers until you can reveal the shallow gash along his forearm. It bleeds badly. “Oh, Kanny, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“

“It’s alright, it’s not very deep. Dad’ll—“ he stops himself right there, lips tightening around the word.

He’s only eight, and here he is assuring you. _Get it together Porrim!_ , you scold yourself. Kanaya is still half in the bush, watching you both warily. “It’s okay, honey,” you tell her, taking her hand with your left so you can keep a good grip on the knife with your right. “Look, it’s Kanny! He came to find us, see?”

Even though you know full well that’s not what’s going on here, it manages to coax a flicker of a smile on Kanaya’s face. Makes half a swish with her tail.

“Kanaya!” There comes Karkat who looks - you scarcely believe it - even worse than his brother. His whole right side is matted and dark with— 

“Is that blood?” you exclaim, dropping the knife and sweeping his tiny body closer between your hands so you can pat him down.

“Yes, it is,” Kankri says softly. “But not his. I checked, he’s okay.”

Karkat scrunches up his face under your ministrations as you pap him down from ears to hooves and back again, ending with your palms cupped around his round cheeks. Despite all the dirt and blood he’s unfailingly adorable and you manage to dredge up a smile for him even as he glowers steadily back. He’s fine, just fine. Swallowing down the tight knot of relief you press his cheeks between your fingers until his mouth puckers.

“Por- _rim_!” he complains, and you just smooch him for good measure before releasing him.

“You two as well, hm?” Kankri sighs. “Father told us to hide, we’ve been waiting for hours, but my brother got so cold I was afraid I would not be able to wake him again. Did… Porrim, have you seen anyone?”

“No,” you shake your head as you watch Karkat rub his abused cheeks with a sour expression. “Were you two very far?”

“Just over by the grove of oak trees. I— Porrim,” Kankri’s fear cracks through his words on your name. “Do you think the others-“

_Do you think my dad is okay? Do you think they are alright?_

Kankri says none of this, just stares at up at you, demanding answers. The way the early dawn light catches his irises makes them glow like hot coals. And you have no answers for him and his brother, or for yourself and Kanaya. So you just pinch the inside of you lower lip between your teeth so they won’t see how your chin trembles.

And that’s when your uncle Kammar comes stumbling into the clearing.

“KANKRI!” he bellows and next to you Kankri sinks through his spindly legs as he recoils, tail snapping flat against his buttocks in alarm.

Admittedly, you back up as well. He looks terrifying; wild-eyed and face contorted, smeared with blood-soaked ashes and worse. Someone ripped his shirt to try and bandage his side, but it is clear he never let them finish -he trails a length of cloth in his wake, snagging leaves and debris along from the forest floor.

“I told you to stay-“ he growls and Kankri makes himself even smaller.

“Dad, I’m sorr—“ he doesn’t even get that far, because his father has scooped him up to cradle him against his chest. Kankri goes _hrk!_ and then grabs at his father’s shoulders in surprise when he all but collapses through his legs so he can gather Karkat in as well.

“My _boys_ ,” he says, and you turn your head discreetly when you spot the wetness on his lashes. 

Honestly, you try to give them a moment, allow your uncle enough time to clear the treacherous tears brimming in his eyes and the grief from his face. There’s no need for Kankri and Karkat to see that. Cupping the back of Kanaya’s head, you keep her face hidden against the soft fur at your side. She’s so quiet, still. 

“Uncle,” you croak out at last, unable to bear the not-knowing any longer.

Uncle Kammar looks at you and you know.

You know.

Your world stops.

“Kankri,” Kammar says, voice soft and choked. “Take Karkat and wait over there, okay? Stay where we can see you.”

“D- father,” Kankri protests, dark brows pinching together and tail springing up as he senses something is amiss.

“ _Kankri_.” That, in a tone that books no argument.

He goes, looking back over his shoulder all the while. All you can do is stand there and hold your little sister’s hand for dear life and _not cry_. 

You can’t cry, you can’t, you can’t, you mustn’t, Kanaya is looking up at you with those inquisitive green eyes of her and you won’t allow yourself to cry in front of her. 

“Porrim?” she calls out tremulously and your heart breaks for her, and for yourself, yes, but Kanaya… your little sister, how do you even explain—

“Dear heart, look at me,” your uncle curls his finger under your chin so he can lift it. “Your mother and father were very brave,” he tells you and has to stop for a moment. To breathe, to swallow, to try just as hard as you are not to let that endless flow of tears spill. “I need you to be strong, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

As you breathe in, your lips shudder open. You nod, tiny shaking increments against the steadiness of his hand. “Alright.”

There’s nobody who can smile as sadly as your Uncle Kammar does. 

 

You mirror him.


	3. Chapter 3

**== > be The Dolorosa**

 

“Kammar, sit _down_!”

Naturally, your son does not listen. His endless compassion and emotional fortitude has always been his greatest strengths. Though right now he’s merely being a complete and utter imbecile. They blasted extra breathing holes through his chest for pity’s sake! He’s damn lucky to have the second set of lungs humans always forget about or he wouldn’t even dream of scampering about the way he has been. Not that there’s very far for him to run, with how few of you are left.

(sixteen, only sixteen came back)

No, wait—

The Marquise has just come trotting into the clearing you commandeered as temporary camp, Nepeta bundled in her arms. A beat where everybody wearily raises their heads and blinks, then blinks again in realisation. An outcry from The Disciple before she frantically rushes towards her daughter, fresh tears streaking down her face from sheer relief. Nepeta had been missing for over eight hours, all of you had feared the worst. You exhale slowly.

Seventeen, then.

“This one was hiding in a tree, believe it or not,” the Marquise remarks, passing Nepeta into the awaiting arms of her mother.

“Really?” The Disciple manages, voice thick and strangled. “My little tree cat,” she murmurs, pressing her nose against her daughter’s. The child’s covered in scratches and in dire need of a bath, but otherwise unharmed.

Giving them privacy, the Marquise joins you. Since dawn she has been scouring the wreckage of your village for survivors, and exhaustion has etched stark lines into her face. You’ve known this woman for decades and there’s a fair share of bad blood between you both, but for the first time you can remember she looks harrowed. Nearly ten hours have gone by since the invasion. Ten hours during which Marquise fought for her life, the lives of her daughters and friends, _survived_ , and then revisited that very same nightmare over and over to search for others. You know that any bodies of your perished loved ones have been recovered and laid out as well as she could. More of those than the living.

She’s found your daughter, too. Your bright, fierce Tegmen (your baby girl). Dead. Laid her to rest alongside Elnath. They murdered your little girl. 

You know why Kammar keeps running. Because stopping is truly admitting that it is over, that there is nothing left to do - nothing left you can do, nothing you can _fix_. Neither you or him can stand to suffer that truth. Not now, not yet. No time for grief. Not when they all depend on you.

It is up to you to keep what’s left of your people united.

Kammar’s heading your way, stopping briefly to cup the back of The Disciple’s head and nuzzle their faces together, to thumb at the grime smeared on Nepeta’s cheek, chuck her under the chin as she smiles up at him. Generally fusses intently over them until The Disciple gives him a gentle nudge to keep going. He does, wincing with every step until he’s at your side. The Marquise twitches an ear up at him. 

“Have you found-“ he begins earnestly.

“No, I have not,” the Marquise admits, shaking her head. Her hair is a snarled disaster, matted with ash and old blood, so unlike her usual appearance. “Believe me, I have looked and accounted for nearly everyone, but I have not found any trace of The Grand Highblood.”

Kammar opens his mouth, but she growls right over him: “ _Yes_ , Cursores. I checked the bodies. All the bodies. His horns would betray his identity no matter how bad-“ there she stops, mouth going hard and flat as she attempts to swallow down the outburst of emotion. “Excuse me.” 

Both of you watch her retreating form, the way her cloven hooves drag ever so slightly along the ground. Yet when Vriska comes bounding over to mother the Marquise swings her up easy, blows a raspberry on her cheek to make the child laugh. 

“I should go scouting next,” Kammar grits out, looking haunted.

You thwap him lightly across the back of his head, sending his curls flopping into his eyes. “You shall do no such thing!” you bark at him. “Kammar, what you _should_ do is sit your big compassionate rear end on the ground and let someone with a full complement of working lungs and no extra holes do the work for once in your fool life.”

Kammar drops his ears and tail, hangs his head. “It is my fault, mama,” he whispers, and just like that he’s you little boy again, your son, your child —and he’s being inexcusably _stupid_.

You thwap him again, harder this time, right at the base of an antler. “If I hear any such nonsense again, so help me I will make a decorative rug out of you. Now go and sit down.” 

Which, of course, he does not. Thankfully Alhena must have overheard a snatch of your conversation because he intercepts Kammar as he flies by. Might well be he can see just how close to completely fraying apart your son is, because he reels him in with tender hands until he can kiss his mouth gently. Kammar exhales, _hard_ , before returning the embrace. A confirmation that yes, yes, you’re safe, I was so scared, but you’re here, we’re both here and alive.

Of them all, Sollux came out of it remarkably unscathed, besides being utterly terrified. He’s attached himself to his father’s hind leg with no apparent intention of releasing him any time soon. Which is where he still is, actually: clinging to Alhena’s right hind leg despite the public display of affection currently taking place. The boy is studiously frowning at the ground.

Mituna still has not woken up. You’ve bandaged the injury to the best of your capability and laid him out carefully to rest; everybody’s received firm instructions not to move him. Kurloz is making sure of that, guarding over his friend with silent, grim determination even as he holds Meulin’s hand clasped in his. The latter’s crying softly, head wrapped in bandages as well. There’s already red spotting through; she was bleeding badly from the ears, and severely disoriented. Perforated eardrums and probably lasting damage to the auditory ossicles. It is unlikely she’ll ever fully recover her hearing. Later, you will tell her mother. Later.

Gamzee is sprawling next to his brother, looking lost and shellshocked.

Well, you may just have an idea what to do about that. You find your grandchildren huddled together around Porrim. Poor lass is doing her best, but you can tell she’s close to being overwhelmed. Her dark green eyes latch onto your face with obvious desperation. Alright then. You clap your hands together to catch their attention.

“Kankri, sweetie, make sure your dad stays with the Psiioniic. Tell him grandma says so,” you instruct him and off he goes, already making a face because ew, that’s where the _kissing_ is.

“Porrim, why don’t you and Kanaya go and bring the Marquise some water, alright? She must be very thirsty after rescuing Nepeta.” Draw their minds towards the positive and keep them focused on it so they won’t trip down that dark hole of despair that’s yawning hungrily at their heels.

“—and Karkat, darling?” you gently outline his big, rounded ear with your fingers as you lower yourself to his line of sight. “I need you to take care of Gamzee, okay?”

Karkat blinks as he peers along your pointing arm, mouth pursing. Gods, he’s so _serious_. “Because his daddy is gone?” he asks after a moment.

“Yes,” you say honestly. 

“Okay,” Karkat answers, nodding decisively as though he’s just been entrusted with a very important mission. Before he leaves, however, he asks: “Grandma?” His voice is so small and so terribly sober you already know what he’s about to ask. “Is aunt Tegmen dead?”

Oh. Oh, _gods grant me strength_ , you hunch against the sharp ache clawing along your heart. “Yes,” you tell him.

Karkat doesn’t answer. Just stares unseeingly ahead of him, all dark hair and tawny skin. There’s anger in his dark red eyes and for a moment it shocks you how deep that fury runs in him, this little boy with his pretty fawn spots and slender child's limbs. Shocks you how much that anger matches your own. It’s right there in the arch of his brows and the stubborn jut of his chin, but he holds it effortlessly, _uses_ it, allows it to lift his head and straighten his spine. He’s just turned five a few weeks ago. Barely even begun to live, but it inspires you do push down on the howling grief raging in your heart and hold your head high with resolve.

Because that is what you are seeing in Karkat. Determination. Furious, raging determination. 

And Karkat packs up every ounce of that determination and marches it over to Gamzee like a three-and-a-half foot general about the lay down some iron rules. Which he does. Not that you can understand what he is saying, but he stands over Gamzee for a brief moment, vibrating with pure intent until the other boy looks up with dazed confusion.

Karkat sticks out a grubby hand at him. Flaps it under Gamzee’s nose pointedly when the other just kind of blinks at it. Dramatic eye rolling and huffing, then Karkat simply grabs Gamzee’s slack hand and, softer, laces their fingers. Gamzee stares at their entwined hands like he can’t understand why. It’s only when Karkat lies down, curling up next to him and begins to talk —something about that causes Gamzee’s face to crumple before thick, hot tears spill over his cheeks. Karkat pats at his hair with these measured, steady movements, like this is something very important, something he’s going to make right even if he’d have to tear down the sky to do so.

At least Gamzee has finally moved beyond that stunned blankness. The tears will help him. You wish Kurloz would cry, too, but the boy appears carved from stone, staring ahead in a manner that pinches at your chest with foreboding.

“Mama.”

There is Kammar again, his lovely sienna skin gone ashen with blood loss and fatigue. It sounds as though he’s speaking around a mouthful of wet cotton. He dearly needs to rest, but you know he will not, even if it kills him.

Alhena is with him, as is the Marquise - still cradling her youngest.

 

 

“I fear there is not much more left for us to do here,” Alhena tells you. “Some of us” - he gives Kammar the hairy eyeball - “are in dire need of medical attention. Not that your skills are not-“

You hold up a hand, and he quiets immediately. “I am well aware. Most of my tools are lost to the fire. There’s precious little I can do.”

The Marquise nods briskly. Her thick hair has been wrestled into a bun, leaving her sharp-boned feral. “Cursores Vantas and I will attempt to reach one of the outposts and return with the medical supplies. We’ll be choosing one equipped with a generator and see if I can contact The Summoner to come to our aid. Last I heard he has managed to establish a fairly good understanding with that equitaur settlement… Prospit, I think it's called.”

Vriska’s ears flick upright in acute interest. “Are we going to see Tavros?” she breathes with barely contained excitement.

The four of your consider one another.

“Why the hell not,” Kammar coughs out. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that big bastard.”


	4. Chapter 4

**== > be James Egbert**

 

It’s that golden hour before sunset.

There’s shrieks and yelps as the children play in the gently swaying grass, chasing each other around and generally figuring out who will have the last word at the end of the day. Your money’s on little Karkat, even though young Vriska is by far the loudest of them all. But Karkat’s already figured out that pulling tails wins him arguments. Can’t help but wonder how the boy’ll fare against your Jane or Jade, who are _far_ less impressionable than either John and Dave.

 

 

This is a new future, you are well aware. By look of it, it might be one well worth all the toil and hardship.

The lazy heat of the sun feels good on your back after a long day of working in the fields. You close your eyes and tip your face towards the sky until the insides of your eyelids haze red.

“Thank you for all your help.”

Startled, you blink your eyes open and glance at your companion. 

Signless’ face is pinched with this curious mix between longing and pained remembrance. A soldier returning, unsure if he can remember what home was supposed to mean. You know very little about this person, let alone his name. Only that despite all the heartbreak, cruelty and senseless loss in his life he’s a remarkably good man. It is rare to see such generosity and fervor combined in one person. Standing next to him you understand the fascination a moth might experience towards a flame. A little too bright, is what he is.

His youngest son has the spark, too, you’re guessing. Seeing how hopelessly John is drawn to him, despite the other child’s mounting ire. Has not yet quite figured out when enough is enough, your John.

“Quite alright,” you say at long last, removing your fedora to run fingers through your sweat-matted hair. “Most of the work was The Summoner’s, really.”

Red eyes catch yours as Signless raises a brow. “Clearly you have no idea how difficult it is to achieve anything in a world where your worth is measured in how decorative you’d look mounted over a fireplace. We would have been without a home if it were not for your effort, Mr. Egbert.”

All you did was give a sharp tug on some of your contacts in Derse, honestly. It was the least you could do, and barely took you a little over a year to get sorted out while they built their peculiar homes out in the woods, all woven up and around the trees. They’ll be safer as an acknowledged sister-city of Prospit and therefore under the political jurisdiction of Derse.

This is only the beginning.

There is a long road to walk, and it will not be an easy one. But you are confident that if anyone can pick up this endless battle for equality, fight, and _win_ it… it is this man.

Besides, it is not as though he’ll be walking the road alone.

You’ll help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's a wrap!
> 
> Thank all of you ever so much for all the support, and wonderful comments! Those really mean a lot to us, so never be shy to drop a line *WINK*

**Author's Note:**

> Glorious art by thepioden!
> 
> Check out the [Centaurstuck Fanmix](http://8tracks.com/everlind/centaurstuck)!
> 
> UPDATE Feb. 02, 2015: We received some absolutely glorious art from an anonymous submitter! [Here's](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/110570575813) a sad baby Karkat, and [here's](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/post/110592940049) some sad baby Maryams.


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